


Eucatastrophe.

by CescaLR



Series: Fic Ideas/Prompts/Tumblr Stuffs/One-shots [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Drama, Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Malia Tate is a Hale, Oops, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirate Stiles Stilinski, Pirates, Queen Talia Hale, and was never a Tate to begin with in this, anyway that's it so far, etc - Freeform, etc etc - Freeform, idk what malia would be, not a princess, the illegitimate daughter of the Prince Peter, there are pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 13:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15972971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: 'Ok so what about an au of stalia as start crossed lovers or like them finding each other through the years?? idk' - Anon.~~~~~~Star-Crossed Lovers Supernatural/Royalty/Fantasy-Medieval(ish) AU coming up!!





	Eucatastrophe.

**Author's Note:**

> lifted directly from my Tumblr, @cescalr. Please, feel free to send requests.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.   
> Being who she was should be, above all things, simple. 
> 
> Malia Hale, daughter of Peter Hale, should, in theory, be a noblewoman. Peter is, after all, the biological brother of the Queen. The Brother-In-Law to the Prince Consort; Peter is a Prince. But there is, sadly, a complication: Malia Hale is a bastard child. 
> 
> Illegitimate.

  * _i._ _Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place._  



> Being who she was should be, above all things, simple. 
> 
> Malia Hale, daughter of Peter Hale, should, in theory, be a noblewoman. Peter is, after all, the biological brother of the  _Queen_. The Brother-In-Law to the Prince Consort; Peter is a  _ **Prince**_. But there is, sadly, a complication: Malia Hale is a bastard child. 
> 
> **Illegitimate.**

> The rest of the country does not know this, of course; Corrine – a lady also known as the dreaded assassin ‘The Desert Wolf’ – died during childbirth. Talia Hale made _certain_ of that. After all, the woman had been attempting to kill Talia via getting close to her brother; such a woman  ** _could not live_**. But Talia was and is, _supposedly,_ a generous woman. So she let the child, **Malia,** be born. And so, Malia is supposedly the daughter of Peter Hale and his arranged wife (a woman who has kept herself and her blue-blood far away from the tainted mess that is Malia), and that is that. 
> 
> But it makes things…  ** _complicated._**
> 
> Surely, it should. She is not fully of Royal blood – and here, in this place, that is  _important._  Her father does not think so – but her ‘mother’ does. And the other princesses and the prince – they think so too. Talia, however, does not – at least, so she presents to the family - and she is decidedly _determined_ to make sure Malia is accepted as one of them, blue-blooded and pure, despite the obvious and glaring issue that that is simply **_not the case._  **
> 
> This world is  _not_  hers. 
> 
> This world of fancy dinners and balls and galas and crowns and tiaras and curtseying and extravagant dresses and all manner of ridiculousness –  _it is not hers._ Malia has known this all her life – known the way that people look at her, even the servants and the rest of the staff. The way they talk about her behind her back. 
> 
> Malia can see it in the people around her. The way they think she doesn’t belong.
> 
> She doesn’t even look – well, she looks more like her father than her mother, but her mother was from another part of the land. Malia doesn’t look a lot like her mother, which in this case is a saving grace, but there are aspects to her features you don’t otherwise find here, and many of them she does not share with her supposed mother (who was chosen  _because_ she was foreign, and that could explain away the differences in Malia to the rest of her family. If the woman hadn’t been platinum blonde and thin and much shorter than Malia’s father with pasty ivory skin, built with little muscle and a willowy frame and her face ending in many sharp points that Malia’s simply  _ **didn’t.** )_.
> 
> So yes. She _does not,_   **will not,**   ** _and never has_** belonged here. This castle, with it’s stone walls and murals and stained-glass windows too high up to see from the ground (in order to stop certain forms of attack), with its battlements and towers and machicolations, with its barbican and its bastions and it’s three baileys; the upper, lower and east. 
> 
> Malia sighed, leaning against the side of the carriage and watching as the forest that surrounded the town cleared away, and in it’s place she could see for miles; across open land towards the hill the castle lay on, to the moat surrounding her home, and the vast plains beyond. 
> 
> Talia wanted the most secure of places that she could manage. 
> 
> Malia could see, even from this far away, the men standing in rows – the garrison’s Captain, a small stick-figure from this distance but really, a man with broad shoulders and full plate armour, usually – having brought them to muster for Malia and her father’s return to the castle. 
> 
> They’d been away at a wedding of her ‘mother’s’ relative – apparently the woman’s sister. Malia had to pretend she’d been told anything at all about her extended  _‘family’_ , and had nodded along and smiled so much her cheeks hurt – and now she was back, all she wanted to do was wait until dark  _and then_  – 
> 
> “Malia.” Her father said. Malia sighed, and sat up straight, placed her hands  _daintily_ on her lap and tried her best not to scowl. When passing through the cobbled streets, she’d seen women swearing, laughing, drinking – talking about The Guard, the not-so-illegal fighting done somewhat discretely in back alleyways or far too obviously in stone-ringed arenas set up in the middle of the street. Malia had seen women reading, writing,  _even fighting_ in the makeshift ‘rings’ hidden in the alleyways _,_ she’d seen many things Malia herself could never do. Not as a princess – it was improper. 
> 
> Of course, her father – much as she disliked the man on a general basis because of the sheer number of times he’d tried to rope her in on his many  _plots_ against his sister and her children – had never cared much for whether she was improper or not. It was the  **only**  reason she had things other than long sleeves and hoop skirts and hoods to hide her hair but not her face and many, _many_  dresses that trailed on the floor they were so long in her wardrobes. 
> 
> (Things like pants, and the kinds of corsets  _that_ type of professional woman uses, and everything else she is not allowed. Though, he is still unable to get her anything that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, no matter now nice it is; even if it is ugly and terribly crafted. So blending in is still… difficult, because the materials used still stand out.) 
> 
> “Better.” He nodded, and adjusted his own lax posture. 
> 
> “Did you find out if Ser Reynard has dealt with the Pirates, yet?” Malia asked, in lieu of anything that could end up  _personal._
> 
> “No, they are still an…  _issue.”_ Her father scowled as she grimaced and looked out the window again. 
> 
> You couldn’t see the ocean from here, but it was just a carriage ride from the town to the open water, and many folk spent their spare time wading, swimming, lounging and playing on the sand or in the surf. Another half day’s walk down the coast, and you would find a fishing and trading centre. It was a common place for the awful men and women of the sea to attack. A shame, truly, because the few times Malia has been allowed to step foot so close to such danger, she had enjoyed her time, mostly safe within the walls of the keep there. 
> 
> The Lord and Lady that ruled over that town were much lovelier people than the ones Malia lives with, and so it was never fun to stay away. Christopher and Melissa. They were widowed when they found each other – it was almost a scandal, given how Christopher’s daughter had been involved with Mellissa’s son, and given how Mellissa had not been a noblewoman herself – but they avoided it, miraculously. Malia would give all she has to have the ease they do of navigating this kind of life, despite everything. 
> 
> “What are you thinking of, my dear?” Her father asked. Malia turned her head from the window, sat up straight and readjusted her gloves, her sleeves, and her headdress. Not a hair visible, good. 
> 
> “How once the pirates are dealt with that I would like to visit the Lord and Lady Argent,” Malia said, truthfully. “You are aware their son is promised to another?” He asked, amused.
> 
>  Malia attempted  _not_  to scowl at him. 
> 
> He always assumed that – and while Malia had kissed the boy; Scott, once, when she’d convinced him to sneak into the wine cellar with her and they’d had perhaps more than they should - she would not wish for a permanent relationship with him… especially one that she would have no choice but to live with, even if they fell apart. Besides – Kira is a wonderful girl, though her English is as good as Malia’s 日本語;  _Nihongo_ , they get along as well as is possible, given that they rarely see each other. Scott is much better at the language, and he is most obviously, incredibly, devoutly in love. 
> 
> He is lucky, in that, as is Kira; arranged marriages for political connections to foreign nations don’t always end so well. 
> 
> “And devoutly in love with Kira, who returns the feeling wholeheartedly,” Malia agreed. “That is not the reason I wish to visit.” Her father smirked, a most improper expression – and his eyes were blue, in the way that isn’t natural. 
> 
> Malia sighed.
> 
> “But there is someone else,” He said, knowingly. “Last time you went, there was a scent I did not recognise.” She hadn’t even spoken to the – it had been  _nothing_. 
> 
> Malia had taken an order to the blacksmith, and while there had seen someone steal another’s coin. Malia had promptly followed him, punched him, and then taken the money – and there, seconds later, was the person he’d stolen from. She hadn’t even spoken to him, just wordlessly handed the money over, as it was his originally, and then returned to the blacksmith. She’d run into him again, later, at the market – he’d thanked her, and she’d nodded, but again – hadn’t spoken. And that was that. As much as Malia might have wanted to talk to the other, as he’d seemed around her age and had a nice face, she simply couldn’t, and she knew she couldn’t. 
> 
> As much as Malia liked to defy the rules she’d been given, certain things that were improper were simply  _not safe,_ and talking to this non-nobleman – that is one of those ‘ _not safe_ ’ things. 
> 
> “No.” Malia said, with finality. “There was not another.” 
> 
> Peter, her father,  _hummed,_ and his eyes flashed blue again. 
> 
> The Royal family are werewolves. 
> 
> Malia herself is not, and that only makes it more obvious she does not belong – Malia is a werecoyote, her eyes as blue as her fathers when they shine with that supernatural glow. 
> 
> Malia got her mother’s power because she died. Because birthing Malia killed her, and coyotes give their powers to their young, like the foxes do; Kira had explained this - that the mother could give willingly or could attempt to stem the flow, but that the power would all go eventually. Either that, or the child would  _have_ to kill the parent. Kira’s mother had given all her power willingly. Malia didn’t like to think about whether her mother would have or not, because in all likelihood… she would have chosen the latter. And probably blamed Malia for it, despite the fact that it was Corrine who decided getting pregnant was a _splendid_  idea.
> 
> “Very well.” He said. “Shall we?” He stood, stooped so as to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the vehicle, and exited the carriage.
> 
>  Malia sighed, adjusted her attire once more, and prepared herself to be eyed suspiciously for the next few hours before she can leave again. 

* * *

  * _ii. _Nodus Tollens:_  the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore_



> A pirate getting his coin stolen seems rather embarrassing in retrospect, but Stiles admits that he never really keeps track of the pouch anyway. He’s not in this for the money, exactly - though he won’t deny that it is nice. 
> 
> To be honest, he’s kind of - well. He got into this _business,_  so to speak, at first for his… mother. She was - ill, something, off in the head he supposes you could say, though that’s _rather rude_  and he’d likely stab you for it. 
> 
> Well - anyway, he got into this line of work for her. To find a cure, a magic user of any of the paths, maybe some other form of supernatural being; fae, or shifter, perhaps, that could in some way _fix_  what was _wrong_  with her brain. 
> 
> It was to do with the brain. It had to be. Her other vitals were fine, most of the time. A curse had been suspected, of course, they always were - but it wouldn’t make any _sense._  Claudia was well loved by the town, she had many friends and even protectors, people who had magic themselves (of a sort), at least enough to detect a threat and cancell it out with protective barriers and charms for at least long enough for Stiles’ father to deal with the asshole. 
> 
> But then - her health declined rapidly, another illness, this one physical. She died when he was a month from turning nineteen.
> 
> After that - well. Stiles’ dad, as many of the widowed did, turned to the local tavern for the comforts it’s drink could give. Shallow comforts, of course - but also, as many did, he grew dependant. 
> 
> And then… someone poisoned his drink. And then - well. Stiles went back to the _friends_  he’d made… and saved his Dad’s life.
> 
> And then he was exhiled. And now - well. What else is he to do? This is all he knows. 
> 
> It’s not - it doesn’t really make sense. He could - but starting a new life, making connections… they’d only discover the truth, eventually. As much as it’s not hte most fun of professions…
> 
> Well. He knows - he realised a long time ago, that it doesn’t make sense. Isn’t this the fairytale? A kid’s family falls ill, and he goes on a heroic journey to save them. But Stiles didn’t go on a heroic journey, because - fairytales aren’t life, as much as the fae and shifters and all manner of beings exist - princesses are put away in ivory towers and the knights in shining armour are sent there to keep them locked away, because they work for the nobles that put the girl there. And if someone were to break her free - it’s not a happy ending. 
> 
> They’d get put on the block for treason - worst case scenario, so would _she._
> 
> But thinks like reality - it doesn’t make sense. It never has. And Stiles - it took him both his parents dying to realise that, for fuck’s sake, but he did. 
> 
> So Stiles is a pirate. And it doesn’t make sense, and he doesn’t like it, but his face is on wanted posters back home and this is all he’s got - he doesn’t have to like it. He just has to do it, because there’s nothing else out there for him. 
> 
> If he’s caught, he’s dead. And he’d rather have his life make no sense then not have a life at all. 

  * _iii. Onism the awareness of how little of the world you’ll experience_



* * *

> Malia knows that some of the gear she has makes her look a bit like one of those pirates, but she’d rather wear this than the garb she’s forced in day after day after day. She’d rather a corset she can put on herself than one that takes five other people, she’d rather a skirt that doesn’t need a heavy metal cage around her waist, she’d rather be able to _breathe_  than to be forced to occupy that small, _tiny_  circle within the metal support for the stupidly extravagant skirts they shove over her head every day - she can’t deny that she likes some of them, the plainer ones, the ones that don’t require the metal cage because they have their own support due to the sheer amount of fabric (they’re more comfortable on her body, they don’t _constrict)_  but the ones she must wear to court?
> 
> They’re more than a bit of an issue. 
> 
> She doesn’t like the headdresses, either, or that her hair must always be so _long._  It is to be trimmed every now and again so as to keep the ends level, but it must never be cut any shorter than it is (though, it is not to grow beyond it’s current length) and so, when down, her hair trails stupidly along the floor. This is the same for all the noblewomen, of course - the hair is kept that long so it can be put up into increasingly ridiculous styles, intricate braids and buns and many other things she doesn’t know the name of. 
> 
> If it wouldn’t get her in trouble, she’d cut it to her shoulders. _Much_ easier to manage, that way. And it would make it easier to keep all hair hidden beneath the headdresses she is to wear when among the common folk - clothes which include the long, trailing dresses and the cowls and the shoes… everything. Complete coverage in case you are to come into contact with something terrible; never mind that they are _were-creatures_  and can’t get ill. 
> 
> … she digresses. 
> 
> Malia dressed in one of her preferred combinations of clothing, and then absconded out her window, down the vines on the back of the keep. They really needed to get rid of those; as much as they were an escape route for the royal family, they were also a weak point their enemies could take advantage of. Regardless - Malia landed softly on the grass around the building, and then started making her way to the postern. She’d had never had much trouble - one good thing was that the staff and in turn, the guards, didn’t much care what she did due to her not actually being a noble in their eyes, so Malia left the castle grounds with little issue. 
> 
> Malia made her way along the path to a small dock, and then took one of the boats to a dock further down on the other side, hidden away in an alcove below the bridge on the east side of the castle. This was absolutely necessary, the boats, because if the Castle were to be sieged they would need a way out - but it was a dangerous thing, so they were not to be used during the day or if the moon was bright and full and the sky was cloudless. Malia disembarked the boat and moored it, quickly; tied it’s rope to a post, and then used the small tunnel that took her to the surface proper, a little ways down the road and within the gatehouse. The room she emerged in was small, four plain stone walls, and the same could be said for the roof and the floor - though above was a murder hole, just in case the enemy got in here, and the floor had a hole in it, through which Malia had entered (as that was the entrance - or exit, depending on which way you came through - to the tunnel.)
> 
> Malia found the right brick, and slid her claws into the holes. This was another security measure - they couldn’t know for certain there weren’t any other bastards out there, so it wasn’t fool proof, but only a Hale by birth could use this. Malia had always had the vague thought that since she could use it, she must be considered a Hale fully, by magic, but - well. Neither she nor anyone else truly saw it that way, even if one of the fundamental laws of their world did.
> 
> It’s just how it works. 
> 
> Malia made her way through the gatehouse - again, the guards paid her existance no mind - they barely even sent a glance in her direction. Once Malia was free, out beyond the gatehouses and the moat and the walls of her home, she moved over to the guard’s stables and paid the hand a few coins, then mounted her favourite of the steeds.
> 
> “Hey girl,” She said, quietly, smoothing down the horse’s mane. “Let’s get going, shall we?”
> 
> Malia rode the horse at full gallop all the way to the nearest town - the only place she was allowed to go. As much as she was truly freer than her half-siblings and the rest of her family, she was also more restricted. Nothing she did really mattered, but if she did anything it’d reflect on the Royal Family, so she couldn’t say - go around with multiple suitors and join in on the fighting rings or… well, do anything actually _interesting,_  as the latter evidences. 
> 
> So she was freer; she could leave the Castle without a huge issue made out of it, and she could do most all of what she wanted to do - but she also didn’t get to go anywhere _new;_  she went to the town, to the Lord and Lady Argent’s home and the neighbouring centre of commerce (if there haven’t been any pirates spotted around recently - the day she’d helped that man get his coin back there had been. After she’d finished up at the market she’d been rushed back to her room at the Argent’s home) and she’d go with her Father and ‘mother’ on visits to the woman’s family… but that was it. She’d never been on the open ocean, she’d never seen the greater country that Queen Talia ruled over, she’d never been out of the continent at all, despite the fact that there are many, many other places she could visit along with her family when they go on their political trips.
> 
> But… Malia’s a bastard. Her world is not there’s - it is free, but it is small. She is taught only the basics of what a noble might need; the common tounge of their land, a bit of mathematics, some of the sciences, and a lot of the arts. She is taught a little of self-defence, at her father’s request, but she had to teach herself how to _fight._  And that was difficult, to say the least, without a sparring partner. 
> 
> But, well…
> 
> She’d found one. Recently. He was a man around her age - a foreigner. He spoke her language, thankfully, otherwise communication would have been difficult, to say the least. He had an accent she didn’t recognise from any of the visitng dignitaries, which was noteworthy; it was plausible he wasn’t even from this continet. But that didn’t rightly matter, and it didn’t matter to Malia _at all,_  because he could **fight.**  And he must have some experience with fighting were-creatures like herself, because he seems to expect her unusual strength and uncanny reflexes - he even plans around them. She wins as many as he does, and it’s - something. If she were to be attacked, and the guard were more focused on fighting for her siblings than for her, she could defend herself and the idiots around her if necessary. 
> 
> He dressed like a pirate. She didn’t ask questions. She spoke like a noble - he didn’t ask questions. It was an arrangement for both of them, in fact; she brought things she didn’t care for, small things that could fit in her pouches (a necklace here, a ring there) and he’d bring her things she’d never seen before from parts of the world she’d never get to visit. Small things, that could fit in pockets. Shells, rings with strange ornamentation and strange gems, a stone with a vibrancy she’d never thought possible in reality. But it was worth it, at least, Malia thinks so.
> 
> Of course, they could all be fake. But - so could her’s. So in a way, they’re trusting each other on this, at least; that they will not cheat out of the deal. 
> 
> Malia rode the horse at a slower pace as she entered the town. There was a place to hitch up your mount in the centre of the place, near the well and the tavern, and so Malia took her there.
> 
> “There you go, girl,” She said, softly, eyes darting about to see if anyone tailed her. It was always a possibility, after all. “Sit tight, I’ll be back soon, okay?”
> 
> Malia didn’t think the horse understood her, or that horses in general can speak human, but it whinnied all the same.
> 
> Malia made her way behind the tavern, and then took the back streets behind and the alleys between the buildings to reach her destination.
> 
> “You’re early.” She noted, as she had scented the other before even entering the courtyard - or, well, the square, average-sized space hidden away among the buildings. He shrugged and dropped off of the balcony on the second floor of one of the buildings, and landed heavily. He stood and brushed himself off and held out his hand. “You got anything?” He asked, in lieu of a greeting. 
> 
> Straight to the point. Okay.
> 
> Malia chucked him a pouch, which he caught, and then he returned the favour. A small shell, a necklace that sat around the neck higher and more closely than she was used to, with small shining rocks in place of gems - and a coin she’d never seen before. Not bad. 
> 
> She’d like to know where these came from. See the places, at least once. But that was never going to happen - and she’d realised that a long time ago. The fifth time she wasn’t taken with the rest of the family on a political visit or a vacation and instead left with the argents like some kind of _pet,_  like she was a nuiscance, well. She’d figured it out. 
> 
> Malia tied the pouch to her belt, and nodded to him. He nodded back.
> 
> Malia went over to the bench and lit the lamp that was on it - he’d probably brought it. The light it gave shone a dull glow over the wood and stone, and at it’s height it made strange shadows on their faces. 
> 
> “Oh, you’re her.” He said, blinking. “Guess I never see you in the day, so it makes sense.”
> 
> “What?” She asked, and dare she say it, but he looks a little sheepish.
> 
> “You’re the lady that gave me my coin back after that asshat stole it, right?” He asked, and Malia shrugged, noncommital. “Anyone could have done that,” She said. “Sure, I’ve helped people out before, but I don’t remember you.”
> 
> “No, it’s you.” He said. “You’re that noble girl. The one I keep on hearing about, aren’t you? Makes sense - I mean, it’d take a princess to get half of the shit you’ve given me.”
> 
> Malia grimaced. 
> 
> “I won’t tell anyone,” He gestured, waving his hand in dismissal. “You’re just being nice, is all.”
> 
> “And you?” She asked. He knew what she was, her ‘profession’, if you will. Malia rather thinks that should mean she knows his. 
> 
> “I’m a privateer.” He answered, easy. “And my name is Stiles - S’only fair. Everyone knows Malia Hale, the not-a-bastard daughter of Peter Hale.”
> 
> “You’re a _pirate?”_  Malia demanded. That was the most important part of the sentence, really - after all, while it was official that she ‘wasn’t a bastard’, that wasn’t even remotely true, and, in fact, it was hightly unbelieveable. 
> 
> “I have no idea what you think my job is when I dress like this,” He said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms, defensive. “Like,.did you think a barkeep’d wear this shit?” He asked. “Your average tailor? Blacksmith?” Stiles snorted, then added, “Priest?”
> 
> Malia scowled slightly and started pacing. “What do you do with the stuff I give you?” She asked. 
> 
> “Keep it.” Stiles said. “Says a lot about a pirate’s wealth if he doesn’t sell every little thing he finds - says even more if he doesn’t sell proper diamonds.”
> 
> Malia continues pacing.
> 
> “Chill out,” Stiles said. “I’m a privateer, thanks, and I don’t kill people. Not if I can help it.”
> 
> “That’s reassuring,” Malia snapped, sarcastic. “Oh, great, the pirate says he doesn’t kill people! Sure, I’ll just take your word for granted.”
> 
> “No, really, I just steal shit.” Stiles said. “I don’t wanna get put in jail for murders I’ve never done, Christ.”
> 
> “Why did you think meeting me was a good idea?” Malia snapped.
> 
> “Who said I did?” Stiles asked, rhetorical. “Look, princess, you were a pretty decent sparring partner for a cheater and you have nice shit you give for a pretty fair trade, I’d say, so…” Stiles shrugged. “Risks are something I generally think are worth taking. I mean - I’m a thief so that’s usually the case, but whatever.”
> 
> A little self-depricating, Malia noticed; the tone on that last part. She supposes that some pirates don’t join because they want to hurt people - but… well. Ser Reynard has lost a lot of men fighting this threat. And here is one of them, just standing there with his arms folded. He doesn’t look evil, not really - just a guy her age with dark hair and pale skin and moles and good bone structure. 
> 
> He’s handsome, she’ll admit. But he’s also a _pirate._
> 
> _“Why are you telling me anything at all?”_  Malia demanded.
> 
> “My dad was a town guard,” Stiles said, “Back home. Mom was a tavern wench but that’s unimportant - no, I mean, I have a healthy respect and understanding of the law, Your Highness. I get cooperation making shit easier for me.”
> 
> “You’re a _pirate,”_  Malia said, scathingly. “Forgive me if I _highly_  doubt that story.”
> 
> “It’s true.” Stiles said, gesturing, his arms held out as if to say ‘what can I say?’. “Even if you don’t belive me, that doesn’t stop it from being true. Also -there are so many names for my profession, couldn’t you choose something else? Like, pirate’s all well and good but it does get repetative after you’ve heard it for the umpteenth time.”
> 
> Malia ignored him and returned to her pacing. 
> 
> “I need to think.” She said, decidedly, after a moment. “We’ll meet here again in a week’s time. Be here, or I will make your presence known.”
> 
> “Understood, princess.” Stiles said. “Thanks for the stuff, by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot in my head for this 'verse, okay. a lot. I like it. I've only made one extra thing for it tho that isn't writing.  
> Here's a link:  
> https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1lZemE5QQ-ik-x0Wb2DOBFRPOImMkP3e3?usp=sharing


End file.
